


Prettier in Pink

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Ella Enchanted (2004), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Supernatural, Valhalla Rising
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boot Worship, Coming In Pants, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Foot Fetish, Foot Jobs, Frank That Works At The Hot Topic, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Genderqueer Character, Gentle Dom Charmont, Hannibal Extended Universe, Heavily Implied Past Rape/Non-con, I Solemnly Swear That This Fic Is Not Crack, Leather Kink, M/M, One Eye Has A Terrible Backstory, One Eye Needs At Least 400 Hugs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Torture, Rope Bondage, Sex Worker Positivity, Sub One Eye, past enslavement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-02 19:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10225412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: “He had on this tight black t-shirt with hot pink glitter letters,” and Charlie sounds smug, which is never a good sign. “It said, ‘Unicorns don’t lose sleep over the opinions of little ponies.’”Charmont hesitates, but ultimately meets Charlie’s gaze in the mirror as she stands back up. There’s a wicked gleam in her eye, the kind of sparkle Charlie only gets when she knows she’s hooked her best friend. “Maybe he just doesn’t think friendship is all that magical,” they say.“Those pants I told you about? The collar? The eye patch?” Charlie embraces Charmont from behind, her chin resting on their shoulder. “Ballerina pink leather.”A little alarm bell starts to ring in a dusty corner of Charmont’s mind. They take a deep breath, because this is beyond absurd. “Charlie, did you accidentally find me a pastel leatherman?”***Charlie, Charmont's best friend and fellow Dom, knows they don't take abused subs anymore; in fact, Charmont doesn't take any subs, at all. For the quiet, mysterious man Charlie met at the club, however, Charmont might make an exception.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LazyBaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/gifts), [HotSauce418](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HotSauce418/gifts).



> Happy [Valhalla Enchanted Week](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com/post/153912056431/valhalla-enchanted-week-march-6-12-2017-what)! I'd like to take this time to blame [Hotty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HotSauce418/pseuds/HotSauce418/works) for her crack series about [Frank that works at the Hot Topic](http://hotsauce418.tumblr.com/post/154422174562/one-eye-works-at-hot-topic). And, of course, my thanks to [LazyBaker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/works) for hosting this event and being just awesome. Long time fan, first time caller.
> 
> While [aerialiste](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialiste/pseuds/aerialiste/works) had never heard of this ship, she was happy to beta the "fluffy genderqueer Dom fic" for me. <3
> 
> I think this will run about three chapters? If you know me, though, you also know that might be a lie, especially considering this was supposed to be a one-chapter PWP. Oops?

“This is a terrible idea, you know that, right?” Charmont tries to stand still while Charlie fastens the hooks and eyes on their merry widow. “I’d much rather just come along to Coronation with you.”

“I’ve never had a terrible idea in my life,” counters Charlie, her red ponytail bouncing as she works. They still have no idea how she finds so much range of motion in shiny skintight vinyl.

“I can think of at least twelve.”

Charlie waves her hand dismissively. “It’s not terrible if it turns out. Which this will, too. I’ve seen you drool over _Conan the Barbarian_ too many times to flub up now.”

If Charmont is being honest with themself, Charlie has a point. In their fifteen years of friendship, there has rarely been a time they didn’t defer to Charlie’s opinion. It was as natural now as it had been at the beginning. Charlie has never once steered them wrong.

Then again, there’s a first time for everything.

“You know I don’t play anymore, especially not in public,” they remind her. Every _click_ of a hook and eye sounds like doom. “I hate how much attention I draw.”

“Comes of being so damn pretty.”

Charmont scowls. “I’m hardly the prettiest princess.”

“If you say so. But you _are_ effortlessly adorable,” continues Charlie, much to Charmont’s chagrin. “The softest, gentlest, cuddliest Dom in all the land. It’s a wonder your fan club isn’t bigger, Charmander.”

“You’re the one with the deft hand.”

She shrugs as she checks to make sure she hasn’t missed any hooks. “I’m good with a whip and I like showing off my backhand. If only my tennis instructor knew.”

As soon as Charlie’s finished, Charmont stomps the entire three steps toward the dress form. Charlie had pulled their favorite day dress out of the closet for tonight, a hot pink fit-and-flare vintage Gay Gibson with little white buttons and a whimsical pattern of flowers and vines and vased ferns. If this meeting goes sideways, Charmont’s never going to be able to wear this dress without thinking about it again. If there’s anything in the world that Charmont hates, it’s ruined clothing.

But Charlie rushes over and bats their hands away from the dress--”You don’t even have the rest of your underthings on, Scarlett”--snatching up one of the pale pink crinolines, instead.

“Where am I even meeting...what was his name?”

“Frank.” Charlie sighs exaggeratedly, pulling them back over in front of the full-length mirror. “You don’t have your ruffled knickers on! Who even _are_ you?” She tosses the lacy petticoat in frustration, leaving Charmont to catch it as she rummages through their bureau.

 _“Frank?_ Does he drive a truck?”

“Check your privilege there, little miss trust fund.”

Charmont rolls their eyes and takes the white pettipants from her. “So where am I meeting this ‘Frank’?”

Charlie crosses her arms across her chest and smirks. It doesn’t have the same effect on Charmont as it does everyone else, though it probably helps that she isn’t holding a crop and is still wearing tie-dyed purple Converse. “At work.” She giggles. “He’s a manager at the Hot Topical in the mall.”

They pause, then immediately begin the painstaking process of unhooking the merry widow.

“Oh, come on.”

“I hate the mall.”

“It’ll be near closing time,” she says, stilling Charmont’s hands.

“I especially hate the Hot Topical.”

“Okay, but he’s _gorgeous.”_ Charlie pauses. “For a guy, at least. And he’s definitely masculine.”

Char pouts. “How masculine is masculine?”

“Think Viking warlord, with a bear rug on his chest for winter.”

“I hate you.”

She bounces, clapping her hands. Charmont can’t help but smile--to do otherwise in the face of an excited Charlie would be like kicking a puppy that had wandered in out of the rain. “You won’t, I promise. He came into Coronation last week with skin-tight pants and took off his shirt and I honest to God thought Bev was gonna have a heart attack.”

“I very much doubt that he’s allowed to manage a Hot Topical shirtless.” Charmont puffs an errant curl out of their eyes. “Though, given the caliber of their establishment, I might be wrong.”

“Yeah,” says Charlie, needlessly adjusting the first petticoat while Charmont reaches for the second. “But I bet he’ll still be wearing the collar.”

“If he’s collared, he hardly needs me.” Charmont refuses to feel disappointed over the loss of a mall manager named Frank.

“I don’t think it’s so much that he’s collared as it is he just, y’know. Wore one.” She holds up the layers of ruffled chiffon. “Or he might have had it on to scare folks off. Not that he needed any help there.”

“Is he particularly frightening?”

They watch Charlie bite her lip, pointedly ignoring their own reflection. Without makeup, Charmont might as well still be nude. “‘Intimidating’ would probably be more accurate,” she decides. “Imposing. He’s built, but it’s more his...his posture, I guess?” Charlie shakes her head, then bends down to slip the second petticoat over Charmont’s legs. It’s comforting, having someone to dress them again; Charmont’s been subless for some time now, so they’re glad that Charlie humors them from time to time.

“What on earth makes you think I’d find him interesting?”

Charlie groans, the sound of a long-suffering foghorn. “You will,” she says, “trust me,” and the laugh punches itself out of Charmont’s diaphragm.

“You’re going to have to give me more details than you likely want to,” says Charmont, wiggling their hips to try and settle the crinolines.

“Frank has the best ass in class and I don’t even go here.”

Charmont chokes on their laughter. They’ve never heard Charlie appreciate anything male, especially not so vociferously.

“He had on this tight black t-shirt with hot pink glitter letters,” and Charlie sounds smug, which is never a good sign.

“And?”

“It said, ‘Unicorns don’t lose sleep over the opinions of little ponies.’”

Charmont hesitates, but ultimately meets Charlie’s gaze in the mirror as she stands back up. There’s a wicked gleam in her eye, the kind of sparkle Charlie only gets when she knows she’s hooked her best friend. “Maybe he just doesn’t think friendship is all that magical,” they say.

“Those pants I told you about?” Charlie embraces Charmont from behind, her chin resting on their shoulder. “Leather.”

A little alarm bell starts to ring in a dusty corner of Charmont’s mind. “Lots of people think leather feels nice.”

She puts her lips right next to Charmont’s ear and says, “They were ballerina pink.”

The bell stops ringing, but only because Charmont’s heart stops, too. “Charlie.”

“Cheer Bear pink.”

“Charlie.”

“Sailor Moon’s civilian shorts pink.”

_“Charlie.”_

“Mmhmm?”

They take a deep breath, because this is beyond absurd. “Charlie, did you accidentally find me a pastel leatherman?”

Charlie kisses them on the cheek before hopping--literally _hopping_ \--over to unzip the Gay Gibson. “I think I did!”

“And the strawberry-frosted Norseman scared people off _how,_ exactly?” Charmont lifts their arms to let Charlie drop the dress down over them.

“Well, PopTart wore an eye patch, for one. It matched--everything that was leather was pastel pink, Char, it was incredible. But Frank let himself get pulled over to Delia--”

Charmont winces in sympathy. “Not Bedelia. Poor Frank.”

“--and she had him take off his shirt, which is when I saw…” The closing zipper is almost loud enough to mask Charlie’s soft exhale. “Someone was brutal to that man. He had the kind of scars you only get two ways: either a sadist ignores your safeword, or you were never given the luxury of a word, at all.”

“And which do you think?” asks Charmont, but Charlie doesn’t answer.

They honestly don’t know how to respond to that. It isn’t as if Charmont has never had to deal with a bad Dom before--quite the opposite, given how many of them they’ve turned away from Coronation membership, or had the unfortunate displeasure of kicking out of the club and banning later.

Still. “You know I don’t take broken subs anymore. Not after Ella.”

Charlie pries their fingers apart from where Charmont had begin to worry their hands, lost in thought. “Frank isn’t so much a broken sub as he is a man in search of restoration.”

“That sounds like the same thing.”

“Char-char,” scolds Charlie, “you know it isn’t.” She pushes Charmont down into the chair in front of the vanity, a flustering flutter of petticoats. “Anyway, Delia made him turn back around and take off the eye patch. Turns out Frank isn’t a pirate.”

Charmont closes their eyes, willing their face smooth. “Please tell me she was horrible enough for me to make liberal application of the ban hammer.”

“Nope. Dismissed him and turned away, so he went and found a floor pillow and settled in.”

“What, just--” They scrunch their nose and crack open an eye. “Use a smaller brush, please.” Charlie snorts as she salutes. “So he went and sat down in the cuddle corner?”

“And then watched the other riggers. It was Chiyoh,” she says, “the one who trained with Go Arisue, remember? Which makes the _fourth time_ you’ve missed her--”

“Focus, Charlie.”

“But Bev crept over to snuggle with him because Jesus, you need aftercare just from _talking_ to Delia. So I was keeping an eye on them--

“Jealous, much?”

Charlie ignores them and goes on. “He practically melted, Char. Watched the performance and let Bev braid his hair. Seems like a real softy at heart.”

“Yet you first described him as ‘intimidating’.”

“I mean, he could probably crush a man’s head between his thighs while he plays bass for a Scandinavian metal band, but he’d want a hug after.”

Charmont does their best to hold still while Charlie blends. “I take it Beverly played spy and got his name and workplace so you could play matchmaker?”

“I guess I forgot to mention that Frank doesn’t talk?”

“Then how--”

“I might have kind of stalked him a little,” she hesitantly admits. “But it was for a good cause! More Marauders Map and less Tom Riddle’s diary.” Charlie slaps Charmont’s hand away from their eyes. “You’re going to ruin your mascara like that.”

“You stalked him,” repeats Charmont incredulously.

“No,” Charlie says slowly, “I Google searched the stupidly masculine, incredibly cuddlesome barbarian that gave his ID to the bouncer. His name is Frank…” She sounds like she’s trying to gargle and roll her tongue at the same time before quickly giving up. “Something glottal, I don’t know, I majored in tech.”

“And he works at the Hot Topical.”

“Tonight, to be specific.” Charlie taps under their chin; Charmont looks up. “You’re going to love the shoes I had delivered to the store.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [nudges chapter count] It's almost like I'm the one writing this or something, gosh.

The Hot Topical is as horrible as Charmont remembers, bright red letters announcing the gilded age of goth. It’s the kind of facade--farse, really--that even the gothic old school lolitas from their monthly tea party sneer at, the fashion and lifestyle cheapened, bargain-binned. Then again, Charmont’s certain they’d find anything to turn their noses up at, cliquish loners that despise the casual. And that’s what Hot Topical is, really: casual kei. They still can’t believe the mall closed the Sanrio shop for this monstrosity.

Steeling themself to enter the store takes longer than Charmont expected. They readjust their fascinator, separating the fuschia netting from where it snagged on one of their curls. Needlessly, Charmont smooths their mint sweater, unbuttoning it halfway, then all the way. There’s nothing else to nervously pick at, so they grip the shoulder strap of their Korilakkuma purse tightly, and ventures in.

When Charmont thinks of the Hot Topical (which they do as little as possible, if ever, at all), the first aspect they remember is the smell. It’s an amalgamation of invisible dust and mass-produced polyester and licensed Disney characters. Which, Charmont doesn’t have a problem with the latter, necessarily, but the weird odor of unboxed Funko just _lingers._

They glance down at their chunky pink plastic watch. Quarter-to nine. The mall closes soon, so there’s no more time to dawdle in the racks, trying to pretend that they don’t want to be here.

Charmont approaches the counter, assuming that Frank will be at the register, but he’s stocking the walls, instead.

Frank has his back turned to Charmont, and Charlie was so, so, _so_ right about that ass.

He’s wearing black denim, snug and skinny-legged, almost leggings, practically tucked into the tops of his--oh _God--_ his baby pink Doc Martens. There are decorative chains hanging from the inexplicable D-rings attached to his pants, but they aren’t metal; instead, they’re hard plastic, alternating links of pastel. Frank’s light pink shirt is as tight as his pants, and there sits a black collar instead of the pink leather one Charlie told Charmont about, but there’s the long hair Beverly braided, done up now in a vertical row of three little buns.

Charmont coughs, and they don’t know if they’re trying to get Frank’s attention or trying not to die.

Frank turns, and Charmont stops coughing, but only because they’ve given up on trying to live.

His face is scarred--a particularly nasty one curves around his right eye, ending like a question mark over a high cheekbone. Charlie hadn’t told Charmont about Frank’s gray hair, or his grizzled beard; they imagine she thought that Charmont would be intimidated by their age difference, and Charlie would have been right. But Frank is beautiful in the way that naturally-broken shards of shale are beautiful, severe angles and softened face, deceptively disguising of their existing years. The eye that isn’t covered is kind, a tame amber, and Charmont could easily get lost there.

As for the covered eye, the black leather patch has a tiny pink unicorn on it, so Charmont supposes it was especially made, is half-surprised it doesn’t glitter if that’s the case. The collar that sits buckled at Frank’s neck seems like something he bought at work, too simple and plain and ordinary, nothing like the lovely collar Charmont might give, and isn’t that a dangerous idea and best forgotten?

“Hufflepuff Quidditch” Frank’s t-shirt proclaims. Charmont can think of at least three dick jokes they could make immediately, and those are best forgotten, too.

Frank smiles. It’s tiny, almost shy, like he knows he’s being appraised and, hopefully, appreciated.

“Hi,” says Charmont. They’re glad for their practice at being innately authoritative.

In return, Frank waves. Before Charmont can say anything else, Frank points at his throat, and then to a button pinned to his chest, right next to his name tag. It’s a speaker symbol crossed out with a red slash.

“Mute,” Charmont notes. “That’s ingenious. Well done, Frank.” The praise comes easily. Too easily. “That probably sounded condescending,” says Charmont. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s only that I was surprised--no, no, that sounds even worse.”

Before they can continue prattling and embarrass themself further, Frank waves a hand to draw their attention back. He’s smiling, shaking his head, and Charmont relaxes again, their purse swinging freely at their side. “I’m here to pick up an order.”

Frank gestures to the “girl” side of the store, and then to the “boy” side, eyebrows raised in question. It’s probably the easiest a stranger has ever dealt with Charmont’s gender in their life.

“I think she ordered Mary Janes? She wouldn’t give me many details. It’s supposed to be a surprise,” and Charmont rolls their eyes. “The name will be either Charlie Bradbury or Charmont Prince.”

He nods, then holds up one finger before heading to the back of the store. Charmont feels instantly bereft, and that isn’t a good sign. After all, how are they supposed to Dom a man who can’t speak? They know there are hand signals to use instead of audible words, but it still seems...off. Wrong. Like Charmont would be taking advantage.

Hating themself for their ableist thoughts, no matter how well-intended, Charmont studies their pink and white nails, and then their mint boots, and waits for Frank to return. Maybe they’ll feel better if they can be what Frank wants, or rather, what he _needs,_ though Charmont’s never thought about Domming in a goddamn mall before. They take a breath, then intentionally begin to fiddle with the leather tags on their purse strap, pulling them out from underneath all of the pastel keychains and baubles.

Frank comes back quickly, shoebox in hand. He gestures to the delivery label on the box. “Oh! Celeste. Yes,” Charmont confirms, “that’s Charlie. Though I don’t really have any proof of that. I didn't think that far ahead.” But Frank points at the box and holds up one finger, the back of his hand facing Charmont.

“It’s the only one back there?” and Frank nods. “Then is there perhaps somewhere I can go to try these on?” they ask, trying to sound as innocent as possible. With a tilt of his head, Frank considers them, then nods and beckons for Charmont to follow him back to the dressing room. He waves them into the room, then asks Charmont to wait again.

Charmont hears the sound of the metal grate being pulled down at the front of the store. Frank’s closing up shop. They’re not sure whether to be excited or slightly terrified.

But they don’t have much time to consider; Frank is quick on his feet, indeed. Charmont expects Frank to kneel-- _Christ, this is happening fast._ \--but he only stands there, looking anxious, as though he’s forgotten himself. Licking his lips, Frank points both index fingers at each other in front of his chest, then makes alternating circles, like the pedals of a bicycle.

They scrunch their face in concentration. “I'm horribly rusty, but I did take two semesters of ASL in college,” Charmont says, “mostly because I’m terrible at talking.” Frank grins, then points at himself and holds up two fingers. Charmont splutters into laughter, and the tension shatters. Still, Frank waves goodbye and goes to close the dressing room door.

“Wait,” says Charmont, and Frank does. “Would you hold this for me?” They hold out their purse, front first, leather tags pinched between their left-hand fingertips, presenting them. Frank reaches for it, then pauses, eyes flicking between Charmont's face and the three tags--one black-and-gray, one gray, and the last a glittery bear. “They’re much nicer than handkerchiefs, don’t you think?”

Charmont isn’t used to being this forward, or moving along at such a lightning pace, but from what Charlie told them, Frank won’t refuse. They’re _praying_ Frank won’t, at least, that he’ll see the invitation for what it is, that he’ll just shake his head and close the door if he isn’t interested, even if it will leave Charmont a humiliated puddle in a cramped and poorly-lit room. They’re very much against humiliation, and that goes for all involved parties.

Frank’s hand shakes ever so slightly, hovering like he can’t decide. When he takes the purse from Charmont and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door, Charmont exhales heavily.

Well, if Frank can be this honest to a stranger, then so can Charmont. In for a bit, in for a byte, as Charlie says, though Charmont still hasn’t been able to parse the phrase.

“You met my friend Charlie--the one who ordered the shoes? You met her sub two Fridays ago at Coronation,” says Charmont, and Frank’s head whips around. “Beverly,” Charmont elaborates. “She apparently braided your hair. Anyway, Charlie is the nosiest person in the known universe, and she thinks that our...interests, I suppose, are mutual.” Frank looks intrigued, so Charmont continues. “Are they?”

Charmont is certain Frank will nod. Instead, Frank sinks carefully to the floor, looking at Charmont expectantly. If Charmont could see themself from that same perspective, they’d be looking similarly, because Charmont didn’t think they’d be completely kinking up the dressing room at the Hot Topical. Maybe exchanging phone numbers, or _maaaaybe_ making out, if Charmont played their cards right.

Curious as to how far their leather kinks reach toward each other, Charmont asks, “Would you help me try on my shoes?”

Frank holds out his hands, so Charmont takes them--and his hands are so big and warm and strong, callused and weathered, and Charmont can already picture themself massaging them with lotion, a reward for a job well done, Frank’s head thrown back against their shoulder. For now, Frank only uses Charmont’s hands to steady himself as he walks the few steps forward on his knees.

His fingers are near reverent on Charmont’s knee-high boots, mint green leather that lace all the way up. Frank turns Charmont’s leg gently to the side, then touches the decorative leather bow at the top of the boot, following the path of the faux ribbon with his finger. It’s appreciative, the way he strokes down the side, like how an archer polishes a bow or a warrior hones an axe.

Boot worship has always been one of those kinks that Charmont didn’t quite understand from the other side of the equation. They _adore_ leather, though--the feel, the aesthetic, the way it looks on their subs. But boot worship is often forced, a practice that strays into humiliation and, in some instances, corporal punishment, neither of which Charmont believes in.

Frank doesn’t look humiliated or punished, at all. And when he bends and puts his lips to the leather, it’s moving, ecstatic, _erotic._ His eye is closed as he works his way up from Charmont’s toe, tiny kisses that last several of their racing heartbeats.

Charmont’s eyes are trained on Frank’s face, the way he acts starved for it, hungry to serve, to demonstrate his devotion, and Charmont doesn’t think they’ve ever been more honored. The tip of Frank’s tongue begins to trace up along the straight row of eyelets, and Charmont _knows_ they’ve never gotten this aroused this quickly, especially not by a stranger, and definitely not in commercial establishment.

Even unlacing the boots is an act of deference, each and every lace pinched and loosened from top to bottom. “You didn’t ask to do that, you know,” Charmont gently chides as Frank slides the boot off of their foot. Frank looks worried, but Charmont laughs a little, reaching out to stroke his cheek, and that brings the smile back to Frank’s face. He licks his lips, like he wants to enjoy as much of the leather as he possibly can.

“How could anyone ever turn you away?” asks Charmont, sincerely, because they don’t understand how even someone as exacting as Bedelia could dismiss him. Frank’s smile fades once more, and Charmont hates to know they did that, especially when Frank points to his eye patch in explanation, and then pinches at the fabric of his shirt and tugs at it.

Charmont moves their hand down to pet at Frank’s neck, and he pushes into it. “Will you show me?” They know they have no right to ask, but that hardly matters.

Frank pushes to stand, handing Charmont their boot. He turns, and Charmont’s afraid he’s going to leave, but he only kneels again; Charmont can see his face in the mirror on the opposite wall now. At least, they can until Frank grabs the bottom hem of his shirt with both hands, pulling it off over his head in one smooth motion. He puts his hands face-up on his thighs, and then Frank waits.

There’s not enough air in the dressing room.

The entirety of his back is scarred, deep welts like little canyons, running over each other. Whip marks, Charmont knows--they’ve seen them now and then on the subs they rehabilitate. Never like this, however, as though the deliverer had no intention of holding back, as if they didn’t even see the man as human. Each is red like a brand, mottled where they didn’t heal properly.

“Oh, dove.” Charmont reaches out to touch, to confirm that this cruel canvas is real. Frank huffs through his nose like it still hurts. Maybe it does. “Your safeword went unheeded?”

No answer.

Charmont’s heart sinks. “You weren’t given one, were you?”

Frank shakes his head, slow and near imperceptible.

They don’t want to know, but they must. “Were you there by choice?”

He turns his head away, toward the floor. His hands clench into fists on his thighs.

“Please,” says Charmont, “don’t be ashamed. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” They aren’t entirely sure how to reach Frank if he won’t look at them, so they leave it up to instinct. Charmont nudges Frank’s thigh with their still-shoed foot, and that gets Frank’s attention.

“You think a bit of back story’s going to make me fly away, dove?” Charmont grins, though they want to cry, and might still later, when Frank can’t see them do it. “I don’t scare that easily.”

Frank wraps his arm around Charmont’s proffered leg; their foot winds up in Frank’s palm, and he strokes his thumb over top of the leather. One side of his mouth curls up, and his eyes are on his own thumb, but Frank’s more relaxed than he was.

Charmont leans forward, one hand on either side of Frank’s head, the index finger of their right hand poised at the strap to his eye patch. “May I?” Frank nods, running his fingers up the laces of the boot, and Charmont slips the eye patch off.

The place where Frank’s eye should be is a mass of dead tissue, like the eyeball itself has been turned into a scar. Above and below are the edges of eyelids; it makes the eyeball affect even stronger. The long, angry gash that Charmont thought curved around his eye actually runs right over it. Around the eye, the skin is wrinkled, sunken.

“You’re beautiful,” says Charmont, and they mean it. There’s no number of hideous scars this man could carry that would make him less gorgeous.

Charmont manages to catch the lone tear on their fingertip, but Frank is smiling again. He brings the tips of his fingers to his bottom lip, palm flat, and then brings it away from his mouth.

“You’re welcome.” They begin to put the patch back on, but Frank grabs their hand and shakes his head. “Are you sure?” Charmont cheekily asks. “You put so much effort into matching. I’d hate to cramp your style.”

Frank’s shoulders shake. His grin is brilliant.

“Now,” and Charmont leans back, smoothing down their skirt. “I believe you were going to help me try on a pair of shoes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm now thinking 4-5 chapters, because I always underestimate my ability to lengthen an outline when I start writing.
> 
> Here's [the hanky code](http://www.sacbolt.com/hankycode.html), for those unfamiliar. There are always local variants, but most of them seem to translate from place to place. As far as I know, there's no special meaning for glitter. It simply is.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my outline is all wibbly-wobbly, I am removing the chapter count until I have a better idea of how many it will take until the end. I'm not even going to make a prediction. Really should've known better than to try. :D

There have been exactly two people in Charmont’s life who even came close to understanding them, and thank God they had only dated one of them. It wasn’t that their lifestyle was hard for their family to comprehend--when BDSM clubs are the familial empire, after all, anything goes. Besides, their uncle hardly cared what Charmont did as long as he could depend on them to supervise the family holdings stateside. Family wasn’t so much about kinship as it was about business.

Charmont had been a lonely child, and an even lonelier teenager, too kink-knowledgeable and sex-positive for their peers’ parents. There weren’t many options for a lonely child but to study, and wander aimlessly around town silently reenacting scenes from  _ Wuthering Heights, _ and read an equal amount of obscure manga and Emily Dickinson.

Lonely adults, however, when placed in hospitable situations, tend to gravitate toward each other, they’ve found. Charlie and Charmont both knew what it was like to grow up parentless, raised by erstwhile relatives; more importantly, they’d both spent their formative years lusting after Mr. Darcy and shipping Thoreau with Emerson. Bonding in college had been easier than breathing.

Ella, though. Ella was  _ air.  _ Even five years after her absence, Charmont still feels like they’re suffocating if they think about her too long. She was the last person to sit at their feet--they’d intended for her to be the  _ final _ person to sit there. Charmont would never have asked her to help them put on their tights and shoes, though, regardless of where she knelt, and Ella had never offered when she dressed them.

And now, here is Frank, and there are Charmont’s boots, placed lovingly on top of Frank’s pink shirt, and Frank’s hands are every bit as powerful as they’d hoped them to be. Every time Charmont starts making comparisons--and how terrible of a person they must be, to think of the woman who left them when perfection sits at their feet--Frank hits another pressure point on the sole of their foot. Charmont’s head rests against the wall behind them, watching Frank in the mirror with half-lidded eyes.

“You’re very good at that.” Frank glances up; he blushes, and it creeps up underneath his scar tissue. “You’ll have to teach me so I can return the favor.”

But that makes Frank wrinkle his brow, then look back down at Charmont’s feet, covered in polka-dot tights.

“Have you never had a kind master, at all, dove?” When Frank tenses all over-- _ That word, you idiot, _ Charmont thinks.  _ Why did you use that word? _ \--Charmont immediately sits up. They wrap their legs around him and smooth their hands down the sides of his neck and shoulders; it seems to calm Frank, being wrapped up in Charmont, and they file both the trigger and the defuser away.

Charmont rephrases: “Have you never submitted to anyone kind? To someone who gives instead of takes?” Frank shakes his head, and his hands settle back on top of Charmont’s feet. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to get used to it.”

He makes a fist, thumb on top, and circles it on his chest twice, over his heart.

“You really don’t need to apologize,” says Charmont. “We all of us have our own hidden limits. However, if it will make you feel better, then I forgive you.”

Frank seems pensive, and for a moment, Charmont worries that they’ve managed to accidentally provoke him again. He starts to sign--”More slowly, please,” Charmont tells him. “Although your fingers are extremely graceful.” Frank obliges, and makes each individual letter with a tangible pause in between, looking at them questioningly.

“Oh! ‘Dove’. Why ‘dove’?” Frank nods. “I...I’m honestly not sure,” Charmont admits. “It was the first endearment that came to mind, and those are often the most accurate.” They mull it over, absentmindedly rolling their knuckles along the tops of Frank’s shoulders. “You’re gentle. Devoted. But you’ll peck someone’s eyes out if--” Charmont stops, wincing. “I didn’t mean it like that. My God, but I’m tripping all over myself.”

Frank shrugs beneath Charmont’s hands; they look up, and Frank’s grinning at them, amused.

“I can call you something else if you prefer?” To Charmont’s abject horror, Frank points at his one good eye. “You can’t be serious.” But Frank extends the first two fingers of each hand, then taps them together, joint against joint, one pair crossed over the other. “That’s your  _ name?” _ asks Charmont. “What about Frank, then?”

He licks his lips, lost in thought--and Charmont could get lost in simply watching his tongue if they aren’t careful--then carefully pulls his shirt out from under the mint boots. Frank flips his shirt right-side out, then unpins his nametag, turns on his knees, and tosses it into the corner beneath the bench. Before Charmont can ask what on earth he’s doing, Frank’s mouth forms an O of surprise; he reaches under the bench, producing the nametag with a flourish.

Charmont splutters with laughter. “You found it?” and Frank nods. “So your name really is One Eye? I suppose that is a bit odd to write on a job application, isn’t it?” They hook their ankles behind his back, taking his face in their hands. “Very well,” says Charmont. “I will call you One Eye, within this context, at least.” Conspiratorially, Charmont adds, “I have a feeling that your name is rather a private matter, and I’m flattered that you trust me with it, but you are still my dove, regardless.”

They don’t expect the hands in their hair, but One Eye weaves his fingers in and grips the back of Charmont’s head, taking blessed initiative as he surges up,  pulls Charmont close, and kisses them.

It’s not the worst kiss of Charmont’s life, but it definitely isn’t the best. One Eye--and won’t  _ that _ take some getting used to--kisses like he’s about to be swept out to sea and is desperate for an anchor, for something solid to cling to. Their teeth don’t clack together, but only because Charmont manages to pull back enough to keep their dental work intact. One Eye’s mouth is soft, though, and warm, which makes up for the lack of experience as far as Charmont’s concerned.

They take a quick, steadying breath. All apparent inexperience is immediately forgiven as Charmont grazes One Eye’s bottom lip with their teeth, taking control. The absurd yet very real possibility of this being One Eye’s first kiss hadn’t crossed their mind.

One Eye cedes to them easily, fingers loosening in Charmont’s hair. They take his wrists in their hands and pull them gently from their head. A calculated risk, but Charmont smiles against his lips when One Eye relaxes, mouth going nearly slack. They take the opportunity to slip their tongue inside, running the tip along pointed teeth, then behind them. It’s less of a kiss now and more of an exploration, but One Eye doesn’t seem to mind.

Besides, Charmont knows it will be easier to kiss him later, when he’s fully surrendered, when all he has to do is accept what Charmont gives.

They pull back again, One Eye’s hands facing each other, wrists still loosely circled by Charmont’s fingers. His eye is still open, pupil wide; his lips are wet, as much from his own spit as Charmont’s. One Eye’s chest rises and falls more quickly than before. They’ve always been attuned to their sub, but they feel hyperattentive now, watching the slightest pulse of blood in his veins, the way he sways back on his heels, trusting Charmont to keep him steady.

Charmont’s never had a submissive speak so clearly before.

“Turn around for me,” they say, and then, “Up on your knees--wait, are your knees alright? Any pain?” Charmont releases his hands, deliberately making eye contact with him in the mirror as he resettles. “And I know how much you yearn to please me, but be honest, One Eye.”

The way he smiles when Charmont says his name is sweet enough to melt, like spun sugar on a hot day. One Eye flattens his right hand, tips of his fingers at his lips, then moves it forward, slapping the backs of his fingers against the palm of his left hand.

Charmont scrunches their face up. “‘Thank you?’”

One Eye shakes his head, then spells out, “Good.”

“I really need to brush up on my signing, don’t I?” and One Eye nods. He brings the fingertips of his flattened palm back to his mouth, but then drops it to his left hand, clapping them together at his navel.

“‘Bad.’ Are you sassing me, dove?” they ask, smirking. Charmont wraps their legs around One Eye’s waist, pushing his arms down with their heels before squeezing him between their thighs more tightly. They’re pleased to feel the swell of his chest beneath their arms. “That’s dangerous.”

But One Eye just keeps grinning. He settles back against Charmont’s chest, head against their shoulder, nose at the nape of their neck. Side-eyeing Charmont in the mirror, he signs, “Good,” again.

Charmont kisses One Eye’s temple, then traces down his stomach with pointed toes, over his navel as One Eye’s breath puffs warm against their neck, until the sole of their foot lies against the fly of his jeans. They don’t apply pressure, don’t press down. Charmont’s is simply there, catching One Eye’s gaze in the mirror, his pinned arms quivering at his sides.

“I wonder what it is,” Charmont begins, “that my One Eye loves so much about my feet. They’re hardly dainty,” they say, running their big toe up and down the fly teasingly. “I wouldn’t even call them strong, though I did powder them before I put on my tights, so maybe they simply smell nice?”

One Eye licks his lips, then glances down toward his right hand, so Charmont’s eyes follow it. He forms a fist, and flips it so the top of his hand faces outward, then moves it backward and forward, bending at the wrist like a hinge.

“Well.” They probably should have expected that answer, and Charmont resists the sudden and intense urge to sniff their own foot experimentally. There’s a rapidly hardening cock beneath their toes; it’s thick and firm, the perfect size to curl their foot around. “That’s very kind of you to say.” 

They place their fingertip at the very end of One Eye’s chin, dragging it down over his Adam’s apple, dipping under his collar to press in gently on the notch at the bottom of his throat. One Eye’s breath rushes from his nostrils.  _ Does that count as a moan? _ Charmont wonders.  _ Do I ask? Has anyone else ever asked? _

They lick their lips, recomposing themself. “Does that feel good?” they ask, and One Eye nods, swallowing beneath Charmont’s finger. It’s mesmerizing, the undulation of his neck; Charmont wants to feel it beneath their palm, read it like a voice. They increase the pressure of their toes against One Eye’s fly, watch his eyelashes flutter as they wrap their hand around his throat--gently, so gently, barely touching skin to skin. Charmont pets down it, feels One Eye melt back into their torso, hips shifting forward to press into their foot.

“Unzip your fly for me.” Charmont doesn’t move their legs, opting to watch One Eye shift and strain for his buttons, instead. His fingers are nimble, making short work of each button, and then suddenly, his groin is bared.

Laces. Grommets.  _ Leather. _

“Christ,” Charmont hisses, and it’s a benefit of wearing so many layers, being able to hide a raging erection, because, “you have leather undershorts.” They’re practically salivating at this point; Charmont’s never been this thirsty in their life. Charmont pushes their heel against the laced-up front of One Eye’s underwear, and he shudders before twisting his neck in Charmont’s grasp and latching onto their throat.

His teeth are sharp, and Charmont worries that he’ll draw blood, but all One Eye does is worry the skin. It’s surprising, how much Charmont enjoys it, the nibbling and sucking; normally, they wouldn’t let a submissive mark them up. Bruises weren’t an accessory meant for Charmont to wear, and there will certainly be a series of tell-tale marks along their jugular by morning.

But One Eye is already different. This is less mauling and more an expression of pleasure, Charmont thinks. They test their theory by rolling one of his nipples between their thumb and finger--there’s a line tattooed over it, and how on  _ earth _ had Charmont not noticed the tattoos before? Curving lines and symbols and arrows that they trace with their nails through the silvering curls of hair on his chest, and this undone man in their arms, the one mindlessly licking and mouthing at their neck, he must be at  _ least _ a decade their senior and--

“Look at you,” whispers Charmont, small and labored between their own panting breaths as they spread their legs wider, petticoats pushed farther up their thighs, rocking their still-clothed cock against the scarred expanse of One Eye’s back. He’s a willing fulcrum, letting Charmont push him into their foot. So obscene, the sight of them, Charmont thinks, and they’re barely undressed.

They repeat, “Look at you,” because Charmont couldn’t possibly look anywhere else. “My pretty gray dove,” and One Eye is loose-limbed and pliable, lips warm and wet and parted on their neck, too far gone for much else. Charmont watches the talcum powder from their tights rubbing off onto the straining leather, building up along the laces, caking slightly into the grommets, dusting in between the spaces to settle on his cock.

Their hand moves from One Eye’s throat to lie over his heart, more safety than symbolic, but it pounds beneath his skin, quick and steady. Charmont stops following the map of his tattoos to sweep back the hair that has fallen into his face--One Eye’s carefully-styled hair must be a tangled mess by now, and Charmont swallows the sudden lump in their throat at the unbidden image of them combing it out.

“How you must ache,” Charmont says, because they know that they do. “Will you come for me?”

One Eye’s hands fly up to grab Charmont’s calves, holding them firmly in place as he chases his pleasure on the sole of their foot, leaving Charmont open-mouthed, staring at the reflection of his hands. The only signs that he’s come are the heaving of his shoulders as he catches his breath, and the side of his face resting on his forearm, now braced against the mirror, Charmont’s calves freed. But he doesn’t rest for long, pushing himself back against Charmont, reaching behind him with first one arm, and then the other, settling on their hips, pulling them flush.

Charmont takes the invitation, arms around One Eye’s shoulders, their cheek atop his head, rubbing themself to their own completion, until they both sit their in the dressing room, come cooling and growing sticky under their clothes.

When they open their eyes, One Eye is beaming at them in the mirror, wrinkles deepened, face tired. Charmont grins back, stroking lazily down his chest with the back of their hand. They sigh, more content than they’ve been since their other bird flew away.

“I think we’d best exchange information,” says Charmont. They kiss the top of One Eye’s head, holding him tighter as he silently laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple other WIPs to write chapters for, and then I'll come back to this. The next chapter's going to be semi-epistolary, so it shouldn't be _too_ terribly long of a wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't supposed to be published for another week-and-a-half, but I'm posting early to celebrate the impending return of [CamilleFlyingRotten](http://camilleflyingrotten.tumblr.com/)'s [baby pastel Hanni](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/nsfwingrotten/161743915663) art to tumblr. <3

They don’t intend to speak to One Eye much the following day besides checking in and making sure their maybe-sub hasn’t dropped. Usually, Charmont would call, but that isn’t an option. Being One Eye’s Dom is going to be an exercise in creativity, they can already tell, not to mention a practice in hiding their horror and revulsion for his last Dom.

Charmont’s heart aches for One Eye, yearns to comfort and protect him. They aren’t sure how to do it without insulting him, though. It’s dangerous for both of them, though Charmont chooses not to examine why.

At least, they _tried_ not to examine why, but then did, and they’d dropped themself.

Charlie had come home from Coronation and found them curled up in the pillows of their personal playroom downstairs, shaking and sobbing. She hadn’t had to Dom Charmont for years, but Beverly was thankfully there to temper the process; it was always easier for Charmont to submit with another sub. There had mostly been cuddles and aftercare, though Charlie did bind their arms, and bound their calves, and then she and Beverly simply held them until they calmed down.

That’s how they’d woken up the next morning, freed and sandwiched between Beverly and Charlie in Charlie’s bed upstairs. Charmont crept out, careful not to disturb them, rummaged around in their purse until they found their phone, and checked on One Eye.

 

_C: How are you?_

 

Their phone didn’t chirp until after breakfast. Charmont heard the birdsong while they were in the shower, immediately grabbed their robe, and swiftly left the en suite, tumbling into the chair in front of their vanity.

 

_F: I’m okay. Making grilled cheese._

_C: Yum! Charlie made chocolate chip pancakes._

_F: Your roommate?_

_C: We’re practically sisters._

 

Charmont stares at their screen for a while, waiting on a response. They hadn’t intended to have the gender conversation yet, but now was as good a time as ever, Charmont supposed. When no response comes, they finish the elaborate process of shaving, then start looking for a business-settling appropriate outfit. It isn’t that Charmont worries about being taken seriously; their associates know better than to question their ensemble, a benefit of being the de facto owner of the club. Still, Charmont likes to at least look more Jackie Kennedy than Harajuku for times like this.

They’ve finally settled on a pink tweed skirt suit when One Eye texts back.

 

_F: You identify as a girl?_

_C: Sometimes?_

_F: More drag? Genderbending?_

_C: It’s more than performative. Idk, I just am._

_F: I try and keep up with the discourse._

_C: Are you trans, too?_

_F: An associate who works for me. Francesca._

_F: AMAB. MTF._

 

And Charmont is honestly dumbstruck. They’ve never spoken with someone who off-the-bat understood the lingo.

 

_C: This is odd._

_F: Why?_

_F: Am I making you uncomfortable?_

_C: Not used to people getting this, is all._

 

The fluctuating dots on their screen taunt them. Maybe Charmont _is_ uncomfortable. Discussing their gender is difficult, though they put on a confident face. If they were simply a trans woman, Charmont feels like it would be easier to clarify, though much harder to live as. The world is cruel to all of them that huddle under the umbrella, but for trans women the most.

Their phone flicks to black, and they swipe it back on, staring down at the lockscreen: themself and Charlie at Expo Dallas last year, she in a yellow vinyl catsuit, they in a fluffy pastel yellow coat, its cat-eared hood up. They look so happy, throwing peace signs like they’re at Otakon and not surrounded by rope and riggers; it makes it easy to forget how nervous they are right now, mid conversation, waiting with their toes dug into the plush carpet.

It feels like too much, too soon. Then again, that’s likely how One Eye felt last night.

Charmont’s phone tweets at them.

 

_F: I don’t like people to feel bad about themselves. I want to make it easy for everyone to be who they are around me._

_F: Spent too long hating my own body for someone else to hate theirs because they have to explain everything._

 

His words don’t dispel all the latent and worried baggage in their gut, but it helps. The inside of Charmont’s chest feels all warm and gooey, and that’s a whole other sort of trouble, of danger, because they can’t afford to fall in love again. It’s not even been an entire _day_ and Charmont’s already having to remind themself, and that’s...perhaps not terrible, but some other wicket nearby, and they’re fresh out of flamingos.

 

_C: You’re such a good person, dove._

_F: Not too good, I hope. ;)_

 

Another conversation to have; for now, Charmont has to get dressed and pretend to focus on work instead of pleasure. Still, thoughts of One Eye invade the very process of getting ready, of choosing makeup and accessories and even shoes. Especially shoes. They’ve never been so interested in the care of their feet for as long as they’ve been dressing themselves as they pleased.

Charmont spends more time on their hair than usual, too, even though they have no intention of seeing One Eye today. It’s almost a test, they think; if Charmont sends a photo--and they are absolutely sending a photo--and One Eye goes for the glam bombshell look as much as he did the fairy-kei, Charmont might be able to convince himself that a relationship is a good idea.

 _Not a relationship,_ they remind themself, working the setting cream into their freshly-straightened hair. _A play partner. Nothing romantic, because romance is silly and should have rocks thrown at it. Repeatedly._

They roll their hair, tight curls on tiny rods. _Charlie and Beverly have a perfectly fulfilling queerplatonic partnership, after all. No sex, just cuddles and mutually-beneficial S &M. They’re great! It’s fine! _

Somewhere between gluing on the false eyelashes and brushing their hair out into a pageboy, Charmont remembers that they aren’t aromantic like Charlie, that they need more to be happy in a relationship than forever friends, and they aren’t asexual like Beverly, that they need fantastic, frequent sex. Their hand just isn’t cutting it anymore, hasn’t been for a while, really. Toys are wonderful, but they’d rather use them on other people. Charlie is their best friend and confidant--they hadn’t been lying when they told One Eye that they might as well be sisters. Charmont, however, wants more than sisterhood in their life.

“It’s not healthy to deny yourself,” Charlie had told them. As Charmont pencils on a wider lip line, they wonder if their heart understands them better than their brain.

Charmont’s already on the bus before they think to check their phone again. They wrap their arm around the pole, securing themself with their elbow, pink lucite purse dangling from their wrist.

 

_F: Too good, then?_

_C: Sorries! I was getting ready for a meeting with a bunch of boring allocishet white guys. Uncle wants to open a second club. I suppose I’m not busy enough as it is._

_F: Sounds stressful._

_C: No more than dealing with flouncy teenagers, I imagine._

_F: The adult employees are actually worse. Regional management has as many perks as it does disadvantages._

_C: I’m so happy for you tho!_

_F: Why?_

 

They’d slap themself upside the head if it wouldn’t ruin their hair. Charmont might as well glue their foot to the roof of their mouth at this point. Some ally they are.

 

_C: I am happy but also a terrible person because I keep reacting like your career is inspiration pornography and I am so very, incredibly sorry for that._

_C: I’m glad your company is more than accommodating of your disability, that’s all._

_C: Not that your disability should be seen as a detriment._

_C: Fuck, I sound like a right twat haha._

_F: You’re adorable. A good person, yourself,_ _Seabhcóir._

_C: What does that mean?_

_F: It means you should google it. :P_

_C: Genderqueer, btw. Bigender._

_F: You?_

_C: Me. I’m a boy and a girl and both at once, but I prefer presenting femininely. :)_

_F: Pronouns?_

_C: They._

_F: He for me._

_F: Talk later? I have to put away my phone and set a good example for all those flouncy teenagers._

_C: Absolutely. ;*_

 

* * *

 

By the time they all break for lunch, Charmont is frazzled but not frizzled, so they go downstairs to the studio. Their uncle had fussed about it taking up so much space--over half of the third floor of the turn-of-the-century Victorian that Coronation called home. But Charmont had insisted, and the club uses it for demonstration nights as well as classes, so their uncle was mostly placated. Roll in a stage, set up a few tables and chairs, pile a room-sized corner with pillows and soft, comforting things, and everyone was happy.

It’s part of why Charmont refuses to oversee a second club, because there could never _be_ another Coronation, not if their uncle had his way. It’s the only of the family’s clubs to live in a house, to be normal in a way that a dark, sterile building in the bar-hopping district never could. A house isn’t threatening, it’s _inviting,_ doesn’t reek of gatekeeping and pretension, though some of Coronation’s paying members might prefer otherwise. The basement is a proper dungeon, but Coronation itself is nothing less than a home.

The natural light filtering in from the oval windows isn’t enough to take a good photo with, so they close the curtains and flip on the overhead lights. There’s still a glare, but not enough to ruin a selfie. It’s good enough for a text message, Charmont thinks.

They have a full-length mirror back at their actual home, but nothing that could put them on display like these walls will. Black stiletto power pumps; thigh-high hose with flawlessly-straight seams; vintage pink-and-black tweed pencil skirt, with three-quarter sleeve jacket to match; a black enamel pronoun button on their lapel; pink, pink lips; wingtip eyeliner that was hard fought for this morning.

Charmont smiles cheekily at themself; _damn,_ but they’re dressed to kill today. No wonder the meeting’s going in their favor.

Turning to the side, Charmont pops a knee, then twists slightly--not _quite_ profile, but enough to show off their neck. They take a few shots of themself in the mirror. It isn’t daring in the slightest, which Charmont had actually been aiming for; poised, demure, alluring. But they don’t feel honest, and One Eye deserves the truth of them. _All_ of them. It’s a terrifying realization, how much Charmont is already prepared to share, to be for him. They haven’t even been honest with themself for years.

Charmont lowers the phone a little and moves their other hand from their waist to hoist the hem of their skirt enough to show off the lacy top of their hose and the strap of their garter belt. If a hint of their matching lace boy shorts show, so be it.

Now _this_ is Charmont, they think as they scroll through the photos. At least, this is who Charmont was before Ella left. Flirty; vivacious; sexy.

They look like Peggy Carter met Mary Kay and ran off with her; they look like a goddamn Dominant, and it’s about goddamn time.

Hands shaking, Charmont sends the photo to One Eye, then goes back to their attic office for a quick lunch before the teleconference resumes. Their phone vibrates inside the desk drawer; Charmont’s hand itches within the confines of its fingerless glove, eager to answer, but they stay collected and composed through the end of the call. The moment everyone’s dismissed, however, Charmont can’t grab their phone fast enough.

 

_F: There aren’t words for how lovely you are._

_C: I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me._

_F: I’ve never seen leather garter straps before. Especially not in pink. Do we know the same leather smith?_

_C: They were a gift from a former sub, and I don’t think Lee would know their way around a bench they weren’t bound to lol._

_C: Which is a conversation we’ll need to have soon, btw._

_C: But I think we’ll be compatible!_

_C: Tho I might be a bit rusty._

_F: You were perfect last night._

_F: I would worship you, should you let me._

 

Their blush is going to be brighter than their pink lipstick soon. A quick glance into their reflection on the monitor shows that it’s already bleeding through their foundation.

 

_C: And what would you call me?_

_F: I already did. Seabhcóir._

 

Chamont huffs, shaking their head-- _Already impossible. Unbelievable._ \--then searches for the word and its definition, or maybe a translation. They feel themself blush harder.

 

_C: Falconer?_

_F: If I am your dove, it only makes sense that you would be my handler._

_C: Flattery gets you everywhere._

_F: So long as it gets me to you._

_C: Does it get me a yourselfie?_

 

It takes a few minutes, but One Eye delivers. His hair is in a side French braid today, little plastic bunny hair clips scattered throughout. He’s trimmed his beard; the two white-gray stripes running through it are more prominent now, especially with his wide smile. The unicorn-bedecked black eye patch is back, matching One Eye’s skin-tight black tee thematically as well as aesthetically.

There’s another unicorn on the shirt, white and pink and seafoam green. Underneath are the words, “I believe in unicorns and gender neutral bathrooms.”

Charmont dissolves into giggles--as least, they do until they notice One Eye’s neck.

 

_C: You forgot your collar today._

_F: No, I didn’t._

_C: Left it on purpose, did you?_

_F: Waiting on another. ;)_

 

Charmont is in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frank's shirt is [an actual shirt that actually exists](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/366550857158814687/), by the by.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolutely did not expect this much time between updates. I'll try and do better in this, The Year of Ship Finishing Things. <3
> 
> Unbetaed, because I have no patience to find one.

They’ve never spent this long fussing over an outfit, and they aren’t even leaving the house. Typically, Charmont spends their evenings in lounge pants and whatever t-shirt happens to be clean and in their dresser. Embracing their masculine side is easier and more enjoyable in a private space, though Charmont does change into ridiculously frilly and occasionally sheer garments for bed. Probably because they adhere to a strict pre-sleep beauty routine—it’s practically straight from a 1950s personal health filmstrip—but Charmont chooses not to look at the reasons too closely.

Right now, however, Charmont sits on their bed, surrounded by an array of adorable bloomers to go over their boring boxer briefs, yet another pleasure of home. The jumper had been an easy choice, thankfully; it’s a lovely three-color pastel gradient, soft and cozy. Charmont is going to need a stuffed animal to hug, they’re sure, whether they want to hold one for this encounter or not, and this jumper matches their favorite llama.

One Eye is absolutely going to think Charmont’s a freak, or into somewhat objectionable pastimes, or too young in comparison, or—

“Jesus Christ,” says Charlie, magically appearing in the doorway. “I can hear you worrying all the way downstairs.”

“I just want to be comfortable for this quite likely uncomfortable conversation, that’s all.”

She crosses her arms, the oversized sleeves of her hoodie bisecting the character sheet screenprint. “Uh huh. Sure.” Smirking, Charlie adds, “You’re dressing up for a date, Char, and you know it.”

Charmont tries not to wring a pair of robin’s egg blue bubble shorts into a wrinkled disaster. It would be too ironic. “It isn’t a date.”

“Then what is it?”

“A—a  _ discussion.” _

Charlie snorts. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

_ “Hermione.” _

“Is he even going to see you?” she asks, pushing aside a stack of pastel clothes, plopping herself onto the bed. “Are you even going to be Skyping?”

Charmont shudders. “God, no. I hate Skype.”

“So video call or no video call?”

“Maybe?” They sigh heavily, turning far enough to fall into Charlie’s lap. “I can’t think,” they admit. “The prospect of this going sideways is terrifying.”

Charlie starts to run her fingers through their wayward, tangled curls, still damp from their post-work shower. “You really like him.”

“In spite of my best efforts, yes.” Charmont hums quietly, turning their face to nuzzle against the pocket of Charlie’s hoodie. “This is nice. I like this.”

“And Frank.”

_ One Eye, _ Charmont’s brain helpfully supplies.  _ Your gray dove— _ yours, _ you enormous, foolish idiot.  _ “It’s complicated.”

“Hardly as complex as your closet exploding.” She pulls on their hair, just hard enough to tug Charmont’s head so they can look face-to-face. “Run on public default,” she suggests. “Go lacy...whatever. Maybe tights. I’ll do your hair, and then you’ll be all shiny for your date.”

Charmont narrows their eyes. “It isn’t a date.”

“Of course it isn’t,” and Charlie pats the top of their head.

 

* * *

 

Charlie doesn’t even try to tame Charmont’s hair—“Messy is in,” she told them, “just go with it.”—only fastens a bow into the one section that’s attempting to behave. It’s one that’s been lost for weeks, a large clip-in ribbon, the center knot covered in tiny pastel plastic stars. Charmont grins when they see it, because the ribbon is perfect, a lovely sky blue with cartoonish unicorns. One Eye will love it.

Not that they’re dressing specifically for him, of course. It isn’t a date.

Regardless, when Charmont’s phone chirps, Charlie bounces back off the bed, clearing all of the clothes with a few sweeps of her arms as Charmont unlocks their screen.

**_F:_ ** _ Home. You? _

**_C:_ ** _ For several hours, mercifully. _

Charmont bites their lip, then immediately hopes they haven’t rubbed lip gloss off on their teeth.  _ Why am I behaving like this? I’m being absurd—he can’t see me, and this is utterly performative, and— _

“Will you answer him already?” Charlie cranes her head to meet Charmont’s eyes, their noses close to brushing. “Don’t make me take your phone and play Cyrano. You know I will.”

**_C:_ ** _ Had a chance to recharge? _

Charlie punches them lightly in the shoulder. “‘Recharge’? What is this,  _ Diablo?” _

“Shoo!” says Charmont, pushing her away. “Be gone! Your services are no longer required.” They think that she bows her way out, but all they completely register is the click of the door as it shuts.

The phone chirps.

**_F:_ ** _ If you mean recover from the unwashed goth-lite masses, then yes. _

**_C:_ ** _ LOL _

**_C:_ ** _ It's official. That's what I'm calling the  _ Vampire Diaries _ crowd from now on. _

**_F:_ ** _ Damm. Knew I should've copyrighted that. _

**_C:_ ** _ Do I owe you royalties, then? _

**_F:_ ** _ You're the one with a nice little castle called Coronation,  _ _ Seabhcóir. _

**_C_ ** _ : I suppose you’ve got me there. _

They can feel the conversation heading aground, drying up; there’s nowhere to really  _ go _ from that topic. Maybe One Eye has been both looking forward to and dreading this, as well. There’s no way to take a plaster off without smarting; best to pull it quickly, hair and all.

**_C:_ ** _ Should we get the unpleasantries over so we can move on to the pleasantries? _

**_F:_ ** _ Haha. Good way to put it. _

**_F:_ ** _ Can I see you? _

Charmont practically puffs up, can’t wait to tell Charlie that they’d called it, then just as quickly deflates. It’s been so long since they’ve interviewed a potential play partner.  _ Ella was the last, _ their brain supplies, and what a wonderful reminder to have in a discussion with another sub. The compulsion to chew their cuticles is overwhelming, but they just painted their nails.

**_C:_ ** _ Google hangouts? It’s janky, but operable. _

The two exchange emails, and suddenly, there’s their dove, frowning into the camera, eyebrows knit together in concentration. He keeps going in and out of focus, like he’s never done this before.

“Are you having technical difficulties, old man?” Charmont can’t stifle their laughter.

One Eye moves back and away from the camera long enough to glare at Charmont, and it just makes them giggle harder.

“I’m sorry,” says Charmont, “truly, I am. It’s nice to see someone else as confused by electronics as I typically am. Charlie’s had to show me how to use every device I own, so you’re definitely ahead of the game as far as I’m concerned.”

They watch the movement of One Eye’s tongue over his top lip as he wets them. It’s intoxicating.

He leans out of frame for a moment, like he’s searching for something, so Charmont takes the opportunity to look at as much of One Eye’s room as they can. From what they can tell, One Eye is likewise set-up in his bedroom. He has much less pink hanging around than Charmont does, which fits with One Eye’s aesthetic; he’s more pastel goth than fairy-kei or sweet lolita.

There’s a stack of floor pillows beside the open, doorless closet, varying from satin to obscenely furry. The closet itself is partially obscured by a long panel of black lace. They see mint green walls, and a line of pastel skulls on a shelf, and a large glass shadowbox that seems to be filled with a collection of knives. If anything is out of place, it's what appears to be the framed embroidery beside the display.

One Eye returns to Charmont’s view, now wearing a set of headphones. They're a lovely shiny blue, with a pattern of some sort. “What's that on your headphones?”

_ Unicorns, _ One Eye types, looking somewhat bashful.

“Might I ask why you love unicorns so much?”

After some thought, One Eye says,  _ Why not? _

Charmont laughs; it helps dispel the nerves. “An excellent point.”

_ It's wonderful to hear your voice again, by the way. _

“Yours, too,” says Charmont reflexively, immediately realizing their mistake. “I am so, so sorry. Oh, this is so much worse than telling a server to enjoy the food.”

But One Eye is smiling.  _ I'm glad you're as anxious as I am. _

“Positively riddled with potential panic.”

One Eye bites his lip, showing the tip of a fang.  _ I've never done this before. _

“Done what?”

_ Negotiated. _

And Charmont had almost forgotten their dove’s history, his previous...they want to avoid the word “owner,” yet it seems there’s no escaping it. Tentatively, they ask, “Would you tell me more about your—your background, I suppose? I think it would be the best place to start, though I wish that weren't the case.”

_ I’m going to just give you an overview all at once. I'll try not to make it an essay. _

“Essays are more than fine,” Charmont reassures him. “I need to know so I can keep you safe, yes?”  _ I don't ever want to hurt you,  _ goes unsaid, but Charmont thinks One Eye still hears them.

The corner of his mouth twitches up, albeit briefly. “Thank you,” One Eye signs, and then turns back to his keyboard. He types for what seems like five minutes, and Charmont does their best not to look away from the screen. 

They study One Eye: the wrinkles on his face as he composes; the way an errant strand of hair falls from the top of his now loose braid, catching on the knot of his missing eye; how his thin lips purse when he's deep in thought. Charmont wants to touch him so badly right now, wants to have this conversation in person so that they can hold him, because they're sure that what's coming will be difficult to read.

They would much rather simply hear it, and Charmont despises feeling that way, skirting the line of seeing One Eye’s disability as a hindrance. Before, Charmont had thought themself tolerant and accepting; now, they see how much work they have yet to do. It's humbling, and terrifying, and Charmont’s almost glad when One Eye’s message pops up on their screen.

_ I made some very bad choices when I left home, _ One Eye finally says.  _ I already knew what I enjoyed during sex, and what I wanted out of a relationship, but I was very young, and went into it blindly. Fumbling around lovelessly in barns with belts and ties is much different than playing with actual equipment and submitting to someone with experience. So I deferred to my Dom, always.  _

_ I didn't understand that there should be rules and that I had as much of a say in what happened as my Dom did. I thought submitting was akin to slavery. That didn't appeal to me, really, situational or not. All I wanted was to get out of my head and fly for a while, but I didn't know how to ask for it. Going along with them seemed to be the only option. So I did. _

_ It was okay, though, at first, even enjoyable. My first mistress was strict, but not cruel. I still had a life outside of the community. Submission wasn't all that defined me. I learned what I liked and didn't like, and what I absolutely couldn't stand, not that I ever spoke up about my preferences. Maybe she assumed that we were on the same page. I don't think she was actually heartless; we just never talked about it, either before or after. And I still kept coming back, hoping I'd eventually get what I needed. _

_ She gave me to someone else after a year or so. Time is a bit elusive. I didn't want a different Dom, but it was what  _ she _ wanted. I thought if I was good enough, she'd take me back, or maybe I was only on loan like some of the other Doms did with their subs at parties and play auctions. I never saw her again. _

_ There was a series of terrible Doms after that. It was more and more difficult to break away and go back to my everyday life. I lost my job. I lost my apartment. With nowhere else to turn, I moved in with my current Dom, who insisted on a 24/7 relationship as a condition of living there. I couldn't go home, because there wasn't anything to go back to; no friends, and no family. So I felt like I didn't have any other choice but to do what my Dom wanted. _

_ It all went to hell after that. He treated me even worse than he had before. I knew I could overpower him, but I didn't. I never left the house, even when he wasn’t keeping me in chains. I didn't want any of what was happening, but I had no idea how to get out. It was confusing and hard to think when I was busy trying to survive. _

_ When he sent me off to another Dom, I thought it was like the exchanges I'd been part of previously. By the time I realized I'd actually been sold, it was too late to escape, even if I had been able to plan one. _

_ Whoever bought me brought me here, and I finally started to fight against it, against them and the captivity I never consented to. There were auctions, real ones this time, but no one wanted to buy me. Probably because of my face, to be honest—I was born with just the one eye, though it didn’t originally look like this; that and the scars were a gift from my captors. I’ve always been mute. Maybe that's why it was so easy for me to wind up in a situation like that. No one took the time to learn how to listen, and I didn't know how to speak up. _

They aren't done reading, but Charmont’s head snaps up, anyway. “I hear you,” they say. “I'm listening.”

“I know,” One Eye signs back. He adds words Charmont doesn’t understand: a letter g beside his mouth with a quick open-and-close motion; One Eye’s right hand like a gun, the thumb bumping against the underside of his left fist. Charmont memorizes the signs, and the look on One Eye’s face, because they'll need both to interpret what he just said later. It doesn't feel like the right time to ask, even though One Eye wanted to say it. Explaining the intent behind the words might still be too personal.

Charmont’s certain they’re overthinking it, so they keep reading.

_ I kept hoping there would be some kind of police action,  _ says One Eye, _ but nothing ever happened. After a while, it didn't matter that no one wanted to take me. I figured I would be getting the same treatment either way. _

_ It never stopped. I'm not even sure how long I was kept. There wasn't any sun. No clocks. No way to know. Living like that wears you down. It came to a point where I just didn't care anymore. I was docile. I let them do what they wanted. It was easier to forget the past; forget my own name; become something else. Then, I was purchased. _

Charmont closes their eyes and takes a long, shaking breath. This is the longest hell Charmont has ever read in their life. Even with the short breaks, they feel overwhelmed, suffocated with anger, and One Eye has started typing again. They want to tell him to stop, that it's enough, but the next message arrives first.

It's nothing more than a question.

_ Have you heard the name Verger before? _

And now they truly can’t breathe, because yes. Yes, Charmont has heard the name Verger, and so has every experienced Dom on the eastern seaboard, if not further. A cautionary tale for subs; a warning for Doms; a brutal portrait of the worst possible side of their lifestyle; the pinnacle of how badly BDSM can go when it goes wrong. The raid on Verger Farm had rocked the community. Railing against  _ Fifty Shades _ felt like having discourse over  _ Sesame Street _ after that.

Charmont doesn't trust their voice, so they nod, leaving it at that. They've never met anyone personally affected by the raid and has no fucking  _ clue _ how to proceed. If One Eye wants to elaborate, then he will.

One Eye does, and Charmont is glad to see they've returned to chatting instead of nightmarish first person narratives.  _ I guess all you really needed to do was watch the goddamn  _ Today _ show to know the sordid details,  _ says One Eye, and Charmont coughs out a single laugh.

“Fuck,” Charmont says, hand covering their mouth, “I apologize. It was the way you put it.”

_ Humor helps, to a point. _ One Eye is smiling when Charmont looks up—a sad sort of smile, but it's there.  _ I know it's a lot to take in. _

“I imagine it was a lot to live through.” If One Eye can be blunt and matter-of-fact about his experience, then the least Charmont can do is stay likewise. For now, anyway, in this moment and this conversation.  _ Christ, _ but Charmont’s going to lavish this man with softness and cuddles as soon as possible.

_ I was Mason’s. _

“Personally?”

One Eye tilts his head. He glances to the side, eye averted from the screen, from Charmont.

Charmont swallows. It's difficult.  _ That would be a yes, _ they figure. “Where did he keep you?” One Eye’s gaze darts back. “I only ask because I read about some of the devices they found. You don't have to tell me,” they quickly add, “but I'd rather not trigger you on accident simply by putting you in a memorable position.”

One Eye focuses on his keyboard.  _ I was the one he kept with the pigs. _

“Jesus.” It slips out of Charmont’s mouth, a broken hiss. “How did you even go to your knees for me yesterday?” They shake their head, feeling their hair bow shift. “That's...I have to be frank with—oh my God, that pun was an accident. Everything coming out of my mouth right now is a complete trainwreck.”

But One Eye’s smile is wide again.  _ You're fine, Seabhcóir. I promise. _

“Would it be easier for me to ask questions from this point?” Charmont doesn't think they could withstand a personalized walk through of the pen—One Eye’s cage, they know now. They can already close their eyes and see him there, all the particulars known to them: his neck, collared in rough leather, tethered to the floor; his arms, wrenched up and back, ropes biting into his wrists; more rope, binding his knelt legs, spread apart, each ankle affixed to a corner.

They can't open their eyes. Charmont brokenly asks him, “How can you still do this?”

The replies come lightning fast, a sentence at a time, though it takes Charmont a few chimes before they can look. _ What was done to me wasn't consensual. What I was forced to give wasn't submission. The initial relationships I had weren't healthy, but they were my choice. I won't let past enslavement steal my agency now. It tainted my life enough. This is what I desire, and who I am, and I won't let anyone strip that from me. _

_ I've learned since then,  _ One Eye continues. _ I've spent the years of recovering figuring out what I want and need, and how to go about finding it. I've gone to munches and talked in forums online and learned what a healthy relationship looks like, and I think I'm as ready as I'm going to get to try and find that same happiness for myself. _

Charmont wants to tell him how impossibly fucking strong he is. Maybe in a scene, sometime, when One Eye would be more receptive to praise. They don’t think the praise would be easily accepted now, or worse, might feel like a Hallmark card kind of sympathy.

So they ask another question. “Have you visited other clubs?”

_ Since I moved here, only yours and Royale. _

“Oh, no,” says Charmont, wincing. “Not Jean.”

One Eye raises an eyebrow.  _ Bad blood? _

“Too rough for my tastes.” They pause, stroking the fur of the stuffed llama Charmont had forgotten it was in their lap. “I would think too rough for yours.”

_ Sometimes I need a reminder that I'm the one in control,  _ he explains. _ Both my pain and my pleasure. One-off scenes help clear my head. _

“Jean can be so brutal, though. I can't—it hurts to imagine you there, I'll be honest,” admits Charmont with a sigh. “And there may be a smidgen of bad blood between Jean and myself, I suppose, beyond Royale being the competition. I let him flog me once because I feel like a good Dom should have first-hand knowledge of all activities that aren't a hard limit for them.” They fiddle with their llama’s ear. “It wasn't pleasant, and ended quite poorly for all parties involved. I was an emotional wreck for days”

_ He isn’t much for aftercare, no. Among other things. _

“I can’t imagine his blanket consent and no safeword policy helped.” One Eye shakes his head immediately. “But Charlie’s very good—excellent and practiced, though she isn’t a punishment flogger. I’m not sure what you look for.” Charmont hugs the llama closer, mid-conversation care. “I suppose if you seek out Doms like Jean when you need—shit, that sounds judgy. It isn’t meant to be.” They groan, hanging their head back. “I swear I have confidence. Somewhere. Maybe I left it at the office.”

One Eye explains, _I go for punitive measures,_ _when I’m looking for impact play._ _I like skirting my limits. It makes me feel invincible when I feel powerless. I don’t need it often, and I always drop hard afterward. But it’s worth it._

“I’m not into impact play, in either direction.”

_ Beyond needing a pain high once in a while, neither am I. _ He frowns, then licks his lips, then bites the inside of his cheek. The pull of his skin sharpens his cheekbone further.  _ If you take me on, what will happen when I need that, for lack of a better word, fix? _

Charmont’s blood rushes in their ears. “You want to be mine, pretty dove?”

His grin is lopsided and goofy as he types.  _ I thought that had already been established. _

“Then we’ll find someone to help care for you in those times,” Charmont tells him, infected by his smile, their own face stretched with one to match, “and I’ll be there to catch you should you fall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back to the fluffity-fluff in the next chapter. [thumbs up]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small content warning: there is an extremely brief mention of non-sexual age play in the context of Charmont going to visit a play date at Coronation. Everything takes place off-screen, should that be a topic which bothers or triggers you.
> 
> Many thanks to [damnslippyplanet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet/works) for volunteering to beta this! I am in your debt. <3

The rest of their conversation had petered off into the realm of getting-to-know-you basics. One Eye isn’t much of a reader, but he watched film adaptations of Charmont’s favorite classics. Charmont has never heard of the Finnish heavy metal band Lordi, but they listened to Charlie play Babymetal on endless loops to pump up before rope demonstrations. Most of their core interests fall into the same pattern: aligned, if not exact.

Charmont would have gladly stayed up talking; they certainly feel like a teenager with a crush, regardless of their lack of stamina for all-nighters. Unfortunately, One Eye had a three-hour drive to look forward to—rather, an early-morning, three-hour carpool with his chatterbox of an assistant manager.

They’ve never been so relieved to have a career with flexible hours.

One Eye’s schedule leaves Charmont with entirely too much time on their hands. Before, they would have read themselves silly, or else gone into the office when twiddling their thumbs lost its appeal. Ennui means Coronation never lacks for events or demos, even the occasional book signing and movie viewing. Charmont wants to keep the place a pillar of the kink community, and, beyond being excellent at their work, boredom helps get the job done.

“You’re living vicariously through scheduling,” Charlie’d told them. Charmont had denied it, but they knew she was right.

With a prospective sub, Charmont also knows pretending that running Coronation is fulfilling enough won’t work anymore. They grew rusty while retired, no matter what their dove says. One Eye deserves Charmont at their best, and nothing less.

Charmont, at one time, was the only truly gentle Dom in the area. They were sometimes considered to be too soft a touch, though Charmont did have rules and enforced them when necessary. Spanking and whipping unnerve them, however, leave them unsettled. They like to have someone to care for and nurture; a sub knowing they’ve disappointed Charmont is punishment enough, an emotional wound, and Charmont knows how to comfort and praise a well-taken rebuke.

They want to be served, and to reward that service. A simple quid pro quo.

The decision to go to Thursday morning’s non-sexual playgroup for littles, then, was an easy one. They can’t think of a better group to help them ease back into their former life. Though Charmont has no interest in the group’s type of play, the atmosphere is soft and kind, and the domination style bears a resemblance to Charmont’s own.

Their lilac overalls fit the mood perfectly, especially since the front pocket is big enough to hold two or three tiny stuffed animals. Charmont pairs them with a mint-colored long sleeve tee—no jewelry today, in case anyone felt small enough to stick it in their mouth. Typically, they would don a pair of Mary Janes and a headband, but Charmont’s been slipping into “boy mode” over the past few days, they figure because they’re getting nervous about Domming again. This happened with Ella, too, both before she entered their life and after she made her painful exit.

Charmont closes their eyes, exhaling Ella from their thoughts, slides their comfort llama into their bag, and heads out.

 

* * *

 

They watch Charlie bustle around in the downstairs playroom when they get home, following her rapid movement as she sets up her camera equipment and measures various lengths of rope. Charlie bops her head and dances as she works, completely oblivious. It makes sneaking up on her and taking off her headphones simple, though Charmont hadn’t counted on Charlie jumping and squeaking and falling over, taking Charmont down with her.

“I’d ask how it went,” she says, chest heaving with breathless laughter, “but considering how playful you suddenly are, that seems like a pointless question.”

Charmont beams, face plastered with a grin. They sit up, spreading their legs across the mats. “It was wonderful,” they tell her. “Very soothing. I wound up leading storytime.”

“Aww, that’s _adorable!”_ Charlie tucks and rolls to sit in front of Charmont, matching their feet to each other. “Tell me more.”

“Alana and I spoke a bit, when Margot wasn’t demanding her attention.”

“Margot’s such a cute kid,” says Charlie. She leans forward, elbows planted on the mat, chin on her fists. “Needy, but cute.”

“Considering her family—” They stop. Charmont doesn’t want to consider it.

“An excellent point. Margot’s the only good thing to come out of that fucked-up farm.”

Charmont knows differently, thoughts straying to One Eye, but would never break a confidence, not even to tell their best friend. “Being disinherited was a blessing for her,” they say, instead. “Anyway, Alana was very supportive of my return, though she did ask if I had truly recovered from Ella.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth,” they say, trying not to sound ashamed. “That I’m not sure.”

Charlie brings her legs back together, bending them, the side of her face on her knees now. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself,” she says, taking Charmont’s hand, shaking it gently from side to side. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“If I’d known she needed more—”

“It was her job to tell you what she needed.”

Charmont’s bottom lip wobbles; they bite it before it can worsen. “I should never have proposed.”

“How could you have known how she’d react?”

“Because I was her Dom, and her lover; her partner, and her friend. I should have—”

Charlie grabs their upper arms and shakes those, as well. “Stop it,” she says. “No shoulding on yourself. Frank has to have at least as much baggage to check on this flight as you do. Like, five carry-ons with an external hard drive each.”

As much as they try, Charmont can’t keep themself from sniffling. Not outright crying, but close. Small miracles, they suppose.

“Do you need some rope, babe?” asks Charlie.

“Aren’t you setting up for your Patreon stream?”

She shrugs, exaggerated, face graced with her patented shit-eating smirk. “Yeah, but I was gonna have to demonstrate knots on myself, and you know how _great_ I am at that.”

“Oh dear. An act unworthy of sponsorship.”

“Right?” Charlie circles her hands around Charmont’s wrists, a beautiful distraction. “So do you want to model for me? It’s non-restrictive. Just decorative tonight.”

“Is Beverly not coming?” Charmont shakes their head. “Why did I ask that? You already said you were going to self-tie.”

“No worries. And yeah, she got called into work. Something about a body being used as a beehive? Fuck if I know. Bevvie’s job is ridiculous and the FBI is creepy.” Charlie pulls on Charmont’s hands. “Well? How ‘bout it?”

Their cheeks heat up. Subbing—if only in theory—always makes them feel shy and small. “I can do that, Miss.”

“Good—wait, girl? Boy?”

“Boy today, Miss. I think.”

Charlie tickles under Charmont’s chin, making them giggle, and the stress lifts from their shoulders like steam rising from a teacup.

 

* * *

 

The cam session was as informal as Charlie promised. All Charmont had to do was be comfortable in boxers and a tank top, letting Charlie pose them as she needed. Charlie never shows the faces of her models, not unless they’re guests from another show, so no worrying about whatever strange faces they might make. Charmont did end up making a number of happy, contented noises as they became malleable, however, inevitably caught on microphone. They lost count of the number of sleeves Charlie tied on their arms, but she only used the one chest harness, a gorgeous experimental piece Charmont insisted on leaving themself bound in long after the stream ended.

Charlie’s chuckling, trying to coax them out of the rope when Charmont’s phone vibrates on one of the shelves across the room. They successfully squirm and roll away, upper arms still bound to the sides of their chest.

“Lucky it isn’t a phone call, you dork!”

“I sort of forgot about the hampered triceps, to be honest.”

“You are the silliest boy today,” says Charlie as Charmont manages to unlock their phone. “Or maybe the goofiest,” she amends. “You look like Santa came through with that pony, after all.”

Charmont ignores her and opens their new message.

**_F:_ ** _I take it all back. I hate my job._

“Oh my god,” says Charlie, and Charmont knows her hands will be planted on her hips if they look up. “You really did get a pony.”

“That’s not my scene.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you’d make all sorts of exceptions for Frank.”

“Will you put away your equipment and stop teasing me?” She waves them off, making some half-disgusted noise, and Charmont plops down into a pile of pillows.

**_C:_ ** _What happened?_

**_F:_ ** _We have a new pirate-themed line. I was volunteered to demonstrate._

**_C:_ ** _Oh my god._

**_C:_ ** _Please tell me you refused._

**_F:_ ** _I don’t think it was intentional?_

**_F:_ ** _I put the patch over my good eye and there was a lot of OH SHIT from my boss haha._

**_C:_ ** _Even if it wasn’t on purpose, it’s still horrible. Are you alright?_

**_F:_ ** _Well I’ve suddenly earned a raise and an extra week of paid vacation._

**_C:_ ** _Ah yes, the “Please Don’t File A Lawsuit” package._

**_C:_ ** _Are you okay, though? Besides being the winner of some brand-new free time, I mean._

Charmont watches an endless string of ellipses play on their screen, pictures One Eye reclined in a hotel bed, typing and typing, erasing and erasing. It’s telling of how deep they’ve fallen already, the way they worry and fret. How many microaggressions and accidental discriminations does One Eye endure every day? His desire to surrender to a gentle, comforting hand makes greater sense.

He craves acceptance; Charmont wants to give him that gift.

Their phone chirps. _Finally._

_F: I’m very tired._

_F: Not of you._

_F: Talking to you, I mean. Not tired of that._

_F: It’s been a long few days._

_C: Sounds like._

Within seconds of Charmont sending their text, Frank’s next message arrives.

**_F:_ ** _I can’t stop thinking about you,_ _Seabhcóir._

Charmont’s smile grows wide; their body warms; their arms are numb from the rope. Charlie fusses about needing to untie them, but she sounds too far away to matter.

**_C:_ ** _My pretty gray dove. You’ve stayed in my mind, too. ;)_

**_C:_ ** _Just a minute, I_

**_C:_ ** _Hi, I’m Charlie, and I have to untie your Dom now._

Taking the phone back proves impossible, bound as they are, so Charmont settles for a combination of whining Charlie’s name and dissolving into a pout. When the phone chirps again, they switch to hissing at her.

“He says he’s confused and requests a picture of you,” Charlie tells them.

All the blood rushes from Charmont’s face. Whatever warmth they’d felt moments ago drains completely away. “I look a mess.”

“You were okay with thirty-three of my patrons watching you.”

“Because your audience wasn’t him, and he’s never...” Their words stick to the inside of their throat, magnetized. Charmont attempts to gesture at their outfit, or rather, lack thereof.

“Frank’s never seen you swing masc instead of femme,” says Charlie, slowly, sweetly. She manages to settle in behind them, Charmont’s phone still in her hand. “So we’ll take a selfie together.” Swiping her way into the camera function, she adds, “Moral support.”

It’s easy, dropping their hands in their lap, melting back against her. “He doesn’t know that I pseudo-sub for you sometimes, either.”

“Two birds,” she says, trying to find the best angle for the photo.

“One stone?”

“No need for violence, Charmander, gosh.” Charlie makes the cheesiest face possible, and it does the job; Charmont giggles as Charlie snaps the picture. “See? You’re adorable.”

Charmont’s cheeks are flushed, and their eyes squeezed almost shut. There’s no eyeliner or shadow; no foundation; no lipstick. They barely notice the lack of makeup, though, given their silly smile. Looking at the photo, Charmont decides One Eye will be too distracted by the ropework to pay attention to their lack of...well, typical Charmont.

Charlie’s work is beautiful, as always. They’d felt the loops and knots as they were made, but Charmont hadn’t seen the finished design, as comfortable as it is complex. Below their chest lays a band of four strands, and four around each bicep. They must culminate in a figure eight tie around the back, Charmont thinks, given they can’t see it. But they can see the band above their chest, parallel to their shoulders. From there, the ropes split into paired pairs, pulled up and around Charmont’s neck, secured to lie safely on each side of the collar of their shirt. A corkscrew above the chest piece, and two triangles as frames, and the harness completes.

“I thought you were doing simple ties today,” Charmont murmurs. They look undeniably _gorgeous_ as a canvas for Charlie’s craftsmanship; Charmont sinks back into their happy, fuzzy-headed space.

“And waste an opportunity to tie up my best friend?” Charlie sends the photo, tosses the phone onto a floor pillow, and starts the slow process of freeing Charmont. Loosen; rub their muscles; loosen further. By the time she’s done, Charmont’s sleepy, practically stoned, and so, so satisfied.

Their phone goes off again; the idea of downloading the coo of a dove to use as One Eye’s text tone flits across Charmont’s brain.

**_F:_ ** _jfc_

**_F:_ ** _you’re so beautiful_

**_F:_ ** _do you sub for her often_

**_C:_ ** _No, Charlie’s the square root of lesbian. She just likes to practice on me before demos. Beverly is her model._

**_C:_ ** _And I ask her to tie me sometimes when I’m upset, to help me calm down and ground myself._

**_C:_ ** _I was on her cam show today. If you want a copy?_

Five minutes, and no reply.

Charmont chews on their bottom lip. It hadn’t occurred to them that One Eye might be upset, or feel slighted. Ella had been, and they’d forgotten that, and—

**_C:_ ** _It doesn’t bother you, does it?_

**_F:_ ** _I have to admit, I’m a little jealous._

**_C:_ ** _oh_

**_F:_ ** _Charlie’s work is exquisite. You’re lucky to have such a friend._

**_C:_ ** _Oh!_

**_F:_ ** _And I would love to see your show._

**_F:_ ** _Or perhaps participate in one, if my handler would like. ;)_

And yes, Charmont would like that. They would like that very much. Their cock is obscenely interested, Charmont’s arousal cracking through them like dry wood put to flame. Even so, they hesitate before sending their next text.

**_C:_ ** _She’s been wanting to demonstrate pair ties. It would be public, though, at the club. Not sure how you’d feel about that._

Waiting; waiting; waiting.

“What’s up buttercup?” asks Charlie. “You’re ruining your cuticles.”

“I asked him about public play. He was keen on your work. Wants to see it in person, maybe experience it for himself.” Charmont’s fingers find their way back to their mouth after they add, “I mentioned a couple’s tie.”

Charlie whistles, continuing to wind individual ropes into neat bundles. “Full speed ahead, huh?”

“I can’t seem to help myself.”

“Well—”

A short symphony of birds sounds in Charmont’s hand. They wave Charlie off, their thumb racing across the screen.

**_F:_ ** _At some point, I’d enjoy that, but I’d prefer to get to know you better first._

**_C:_ ** _We did begin a bit backwards, didn’t we?_

**_F:_ ** _I do think public play would be best for me right now. Spent too long being hidden away in private spaces where rules of conduct didn’t exist._

**_F:_ ** _It isn’t that I don’t trust you, because I do, in a way that almost scares me. But I also want to go slowly, ease into it._

**_F:_ ** _I don’t want to fuck this up._

**_C:_ ** _You could never. <3 _

**_F:_ ** _Maybe a date?_

**_F:_ ** _Meeting_

**_F:_ ** _Somewhere neutral_

Charmont knows precisely who to ask. If they can survive lunch with Alana and Bedelia, they can absolutely survive their first date in five years with the man they’re in love with.

Wait.

_Oh god,_ Charmont realizes as the air gets sucked out of the room. _I’m already in love with him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until next time! :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider sharing [the aesthetic post](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/158346580037/prettier-in-pink-by-shiphitsthefan-explicit-he).
> 
> (There's also a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/shiphitsthefan/ficprettier-in-pink/) for it, because reasons.)
> 
> Thanks for reading my fic! If you'd like, come visit me on [tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/). I'm friendly and enjoy flailing about various topics.
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3
> 
> [There's also a [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/shiphitsthefan/ficprettier-in-pink/) for it, because reasons.]


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